Wicked
Bella Rolland, Derrick Pierce Pic(s)
The amber glow from the candle on the nightstand caught the curve of her smile as his fingers, tentative at first, traced the line of her jaw. A shiver, delicate as a sigh, traveled down her spine when his thumb brushed her lower lip, a silent question answered by the part of her mouth. The scent of his skin, a clean mix of soap and night air, filled the space between them as he leaned in, his forehead resting agat hers. His other hand found the small of her back, pressing her closer until she could feel the steady, strong rhythm of his heart agat her own. The world outside, with its distant city hum, faded into an indistinct murmur, unimportant agat the soft rustle of cotton as his shirt was slowly pushed from his shoulders. Her own hands explored the newly revealed landscape of his shoulders, feeling the shift of solid muscle under warm, smooth skin. His mouth finally met hers not with haste, but with a deep, lingering certainty that tasted of red wine and unspoken promises. Every point of contact, from the press of his thigh agat hers to the gentle grip of his hand in her hair, felt like a perfect, locking puzzle piece finally sliding home. In that suspended moment, there was only the shared breath, the building heat, and the profound rightness of two bodies discovering their intended symmetry.
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